


postponement

by ddeiSmile



Series: a song for the wolf [3]
Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Sansa Centric
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-14
Updated: 2017-11-14
Packaged: 2019-02-02 00:37:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,976
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12716178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ddeiSmile/pseuds/ddeiSmile
Summary: A queen kissed by fire who blooms in the winter and howls to the moon. They speak the truth, for she indeed was kissed by fire—she had melted countless times in his arms, she had felt the pain and the pleasure within his flames and she had howled to the moon, begging for the world to stop, just like her heart each time he made her reach the depths of hell and then up to the skies.





	postponement

She sits in her room, a mirror in front of her. The image that comes back to her is vaguely familiar, she has reached the age of thirty-four, a year less than Catelyn Stark when she was killed, but still, Sansa looks every last bit like her mother, perhaps with fewer wrinkles –the tell tale her mother earned after bearing five children– and even more mighty after years of ruling the North.

There are northerner's songs that talk about her beauty, her mother's inherited beauty: a queen kissed by fire who blooms in the winter and howls to the moon. They speak the truth, for she indeed was kissed by fire—she had melted countless times in his arms, she had felt the pain and the pleasure within his flames and she had howled to the moon, begging for the world to stop, just like her heart each time he made her reach the depths of hell and then up to the skies. Those hours, those sayings, that part of her, it all seems far away. Right now she can only see the shadows under her eyes, her hair a bit messy and darker than yesterday, her small clothes being the only thing she's wearing; she's never been so unkempt, but at the moment it doesn't concern her, inside this four walls she can be  the stupid little girl she is and not the wolf she has become.

"Your grace, your bath is ready."

Sansa stands slowly, her body hurting at every juncture, in every space of skin he had kissed just a moon turn before. Now, the king was dead, a strange illness they say, it had been sudden and fast, the symptoms had struck at night and by the end of the day, he was gone. She knew a letter from King's Landing was bound to come since the twilight was upon them, she knew it would be written with the utmost care by Sam himself, but the rumors travelled faster than a raven and, truthfully, there was nothing left to say, because nothing would ever take away the pain from her chest. To her, inside this room, it was not the king in the South who had died, but Jon Snow, the only man she would ever love.

New songs would be made, they'll sing about the Virgin Queen and how she died when her king was buried. Not in the flesh, not yet, because half of her –that _royal_ side– is still breathing for her people, for the North, but with Jon gone, there were barely a few shattered pieces left of Sansa.

She lets her maid undress her, kind and capable hands moving around until she stands naked in the middle of the room. Her eyes travel to the mirror at her left and the view is so painful she feels the air in her lungs escape from her. Sansa can't stand to watch herself like this, knowing that he won't be there to kiss her or touch every corner of her body ever again.

The water is warm as she slips in, it burns her skin, but she's glad for it, it takes her mind away from the pain in her chest, so she sits in silence, curled up in a corner.

"Do you need anything else, my queen?"

"No, thank you, you can leave now, Jeyne."

Her eyelids fall close when the door's shut behind Jeyne and only then she lets herself cry, she thought there were no tears left in her, but here they are and she can almost see his furrowed eyebrows, face constricted with pain, whispering against her wet cheeks, _don't cry, love, my sweet Sansa_ . She had learned to build walls around her, it helped her keep her feelings at bay, she was a queen in a world governed by man, she had been a little girl between lions, but with Jon she didn't need them, they always crumbled down, so it wasn't few the times he saw her in a state like this. _You are mine as I am yours_ , he had said more than once but it never helped with the pain in her chest, the hatred she felt when anyone mentioned the southern queen, a beautiful woman with golden skin and green eyes who gave birth to the little prince.

  
But that had been her own fault.

When he left to free the South from Cersei, she knew that hadn't been the last goodbye they would share, but she never expected to affront what would become of them so soon after his success. She had stood tall in her stallion, but he was larger in his dragon, proud, as she never saw him, Sansa was sure not even Jon could recognize himself, clad in the Targaryen colors with a crown on his head. That had been the first signal.

He had come down from his dragon graciously, already accustomed to it and walked the distance between them, far too big for a king to do so, but this was no political encounter between the king of the Southern lands and the queen in the North, not since it was the middle of the night, with her clad only in her nightgown under the soft fabric of her furs to keep her warm. She had been trembling, a craving for another kind of warmth.

She remembers how Ghost had trotted to Jon, how he came to his knees immediately, pressing his forehead against the direwolf head while murmuring some words that Sansa didn't recognize. The image had been enough to make her feel some bittersweet sensation in her stomach and that was the second signal. Jon's eyes had lifted to meet hers and then he stood, still pressing his hand to Ghost's nape until he reached her side, she hadn't doubt to extend her hands to him as he lifted his, first holding to his wrist and slowly falling until reaching his shoulders, coming graciously over his chest as he held her waist. He had pressed her to his body, letting her slide to the ground without any distance between them. The movement had opened the fabric of her furs and then, with the deep rhythm of their breaths, Sansa had felt the way his chest warmed her own, and if her hands hadn't been holding to him for dear life, she was sure she would've had collapsed to the ground, because that had always been the effect Jon had on her, even to this day.

"My queen," he had said, his voice gruff, hoarse, filled with love and desire, the same that had been dancing in his eyes. It was the third signal.

"What has brought you to my lands right after your coronation, king Jon?"

"I called for you, you didn't come to the ceremony. I wanted you there, I needed to see you, to have you with me. I'm not good at this," his eyes had fallen to a place far away and Sansa brought him back by pressing her hand to his black curls.

"You are good, far more better than anyone I've ever met." She hadn't lied, not to him.

"I wanted to see you."

And there it was, that had been the moment when she knew what he was doing.

"Jon," she had warned him, taking a step back.

Jon had followed her, catching the hand that had been on his hair and tugging her back against his chest. "Marry me, Sansa. We'll make of Westeros's a better place--"

"You sound like Tyrion."

"And he might be right. I want a better world for you, for us, for--"

"Jon," she had pleaded.

"Our children.”

For a brief second, she had wanted to say yes, because Jon was not like any other men. When they had laid in bed together, there had been a moment in which terror consumed her and she almost thought about sticking her needle in his throat, by doing that she would've lost everything: the thin line that separated her from what Cersei and Baelish were, the life in her soul; but in the end, he had taught her what pleasure felt like, only confirming what she knew, the reason why she dared to love him: it was proof of the kind of man he was, noble, sweet, so much like her own father. Loving Jon was easy, but having his son would turn her into something she once dreamed to be, but not anymore.

At that moment, standing in front of his hopeful eyes, she realized she had earned a better purpose for her life: lifting the North from its ashes, where three wars had swept them to their knees, but, by her hand, they would become the great force they once were. She owed it to her family, to herself, not to become once again what she had been: just a silly girl who thought the greatest honor in this world was to have a round belly and a husband to serve. So she said no and lived with the consequences.

Of course, it came the time in which Jon had to do what was his duty: marry a woman and give his realm the heir they needed and truly, it was no surprise that he didn't dare to say no, Jon was too good for this world and his sense of honor had been first always.

She stops crying before Jeyne knocks on her door frantically, Sansa is too tired to dismiss her without a care for the world because today she is mourning, so she looks to her hands, finding her fingers wrinkled and hopes her maid will just leave her alone. Unfortunately, her silence is taken as a permission to enter and soon Jeyne is kneeling beside her, her eyes too scared for being just anything. Still, Sansa turns her face away, shrinking a bit more into the water.

"Jen--"

"Your grace, the--a dragon," Sansa looks at her, "a dragon has landed over the hills."

Her heart pounds in her chest, she stands graciously, always being the queen and proper lady she was taught to be, Jeyne does the same, fetching her clothes.

"Just the dress," she says, not even caring that it will stick to her wet skin and freeze her to the bones. _Jon's here_ , she thinks, _it must be him_.

When she reaches the stables, her hands are trembling from the cold even under her furs. She climbs to the saddle and takes off without waiting for Brienne, even though Jeyne has surely gone to fetch her; normally, they would've known not to intervene, but Sansa hasn't been herself since the news reached Winterfell and they had tried not to leave her alone for even a second. Now it's different, she knows everything has been in vain because it must be him, _it has to be_.

She doesn't pay attention to the eyes that follow her, she never did each time she would be called upon the arrival of a dragon to the hills and she would storm off to encounter him. It was a secret known by everyone.

The cold is almost unbearable with her hair wet, it brings on the memories of the time she had to cross a river with Theon's help while running away from Ramsay, but just like before, this kind of pain takes her mind away from the excruciating pain she had gone through, it makes her feel alive and soon she'll have Jon to keep her warm.

Rhaegal is there and on his back, she sees Jon. Her smile falters, though, when she comes close enough and stops her horse, noticing that it's not him who comes down from the dragon. The boy walks in her direction and extends a hand for her to take it, she does and keeps her expression guarded when he uses his free arm to hold her waist and help her down the saddle. He's a head taller than her, his skin the color of the sun, it screams Dornish, but the rest of him was that northern side of Jon's: the lips, his eyes, the onyx of his hair. He doesn't step back to give her space, so she takes on the excuse to walk closer Rhaegal –having with the years developed a strange friendship between them–, resting her forehead against his nose, almost breathing with relief when his warm breath and skin chases away the cold.

She needs to catch her breath from the sparkle of hope she had felt, blinking back the tears. She knew this boy, she understood this was the new king of the South, still, it was hard to acknowledge him in the state she was.

She had met him when he was three years old, Jon had asked first and she had said yes, but as soon as her eyes landed on the smiling little kid, her heart had broken because he could've been hers, he could've been the heir to the North. Sansa would've named him Robb Stark, but now he was Rhaegar Targaryen, the second to his name, and she was the only one to be held as guilty. Jon didn't bring him back ever again, not because she asked, but because he had seen how much pain it had caused her. She had been thankful for that, it was easier to think that his life in the South had nothing to do with reality.

He's the one to approach her again, extending a hand to Rhaegal nose, close to hers. She looks at him through her lashes while she does a little courtesy.

"What brings your grace to the North, if I may ask."

"The songs speak of it," he says, his eyes crouching slightly as he looks to the skies. It takes her breath away as he looks every bit like Jon, even his voice sounds like it. "The king would take his dragon and fly high, so high that the clouds would hide them, but everyone knew because the Earth would shake from the passion of their love," his eyes fall again to her, she can hear the Dornish accent in his words and the mocking tone in it. "Yes, king Jon would fly high to the arms of his mistress in Winterfell, the Virgin Queen kissed by fire."

She decides to not address the fact that he called her Jon's mistress, after all, he only spoke the truth. "Those are only tales," she lies.

He half smiles. "Perhaps, I have no proof of that, but I do know he loved you."

He searches something on her face, her eyes, the tip of her nose, the fire in her hair, he follows the curve of her breast that is more apparent without her small clothes and she can almost hear him judging her, how those are the breasts of a woman that never carried the milk for a child; her small, thin waist that never stretched out for a belly; the fall of her dress, so much of a northern she was. His scrutiny was rude, the way he was seeing her, the flash of male wonder, contemplating how it would feel to fuck her—it was sickening. Jon would've never allowed something like this, he would never look upon her like that. Her cheeks turn a dark shade of red, but not from embarrassment; no, she only feels rage.

"Aye, then you should wonder if he was my mistress."

Something sparks in his eyes, maybe admiration, maybe a kind of fury. She can't tell, unlike she always did with Jon.

"Yes, I do. They say he was trapped by a wolf's claws."

Sansa half-smiles, a fake one, "Jon was a wolf too."

"A dragon raised by wolfs," the boy corrects her, frowning.

"He was part of our pack, he felt more comfortable being a wolf than a dragon," this time her tone is sharp.

"He fell in love with a wolf, that's why. We are dragons, we don't particularly like the snow."

Sansa holds a gasp, not for the words, but the image they evoke, how truly Jon had loved her and the North, how he had kissed the water from her skin when they laid in cold nights right beside Rhaegal and a fire, how the taste had calmed down his thirst for the cold breeze of his home.

"I dare to defer."

He seems to understand what she's thinking and that makes her blush, it's not her place to talk about his father's action as a man, it shouldn't be, even more so now that there's a possibility that Jon is dead. She reprimands herself because she shouldn't be doubting it, it will only hurt more when this boy speaks out the truth. She sees something like fire in his eyes then and he looks again at her as if wondering what did Jon find in her to make him return each time to her embrace.

"Sansa of House Stark," his voice is solemn, surely he has learned how to lie to be a king. Jon never could do that, "Queen of Winterfell, I would like for you to permit me to bring my father's body to be mourned here."

Of course, it hurts, but it also takes her by surprise and this time she can't control the expression on her face. He extends a hand over Rhaegal and keeps on talking. "My father was never there, in King's Landing I mean, not really. You'd see him on the throne, eating by my mother's side some rare nights, when it was needed only, but he would always be watching to some far away place. He missed the North or he probably just missed you," he stops when the resentment starts to change the tone of his voice. "He believed in the religion of my grandmother Lyanna, it's only fitting for him to rest here. He was never ours, not my mother's and not mine."

The world is a darker place today, but this moment will surely give her great pleasure in the years to come. It's not fair, she knows, his words only mean that she took Jon away from them, but the truth is that he never was theirs, not from the beginning, not in the middle and not in the end, and she was more than glad for it.

She nods after a pause. "I will make sure the respects are paid as the old and new gods religion demands."

"Thank you, my lady," he says, a tone she recognizes very well, she uses it when she doesn't really care, but won't be rude to the person.

He starts to walk away, ready to part, perhaps to take Jon's body. She wonders if she'll ever be ready to see him, if it's alright to accept taking care of this.

"Your grace," she calls. He stops immediately and once again she's taken aback by the resemblance. She hesitates before continuing, wondering if it's alright to ask for Sam or Tyrion, she knows she won't be able to do this on her own. In the end, she decides she can't show him that weakness, this boy is not Jon. "He loved you very much."

"Did he?"

She doesn't know, Jon never talked about his life in the South, mainly because she didn't want to hear it. "Yes, he did."

But it was not a lie, she knew Jon would love and protect his kin no matter what, it had been his dream: to have a family of his own.

"He was proud, but kind, always kind. He would look at me and say: be an honorable man, Rhaegar; honor and duty are always first. I admired him for that. But then I grew up, I'd find my mother crying while my father was gone, I'd hear whispers about king Jon and his lady Sansa and how history repeated itself with a Targaryen falling for a Stark while married to a Dornish woman," he looks at her then. "He was kind but selfish."

She smiled, this kid knew nothing about Jon, but she thinks that's expected because Jon was never good with words or expressing himself in any form. If there was a man without an ounce of selfishness in his body that was Jon. Yes, he made mistakes, the gods be damned if it wasn't her the main cause of this particular mistake –her own selfishness–, but he was never going to hurt a person for a selfish wish, not willingly.

"Do you find that funny?"

"No, your grace."

"Please, do not act condescending like all the lords and ladies at court. Here, I am Rhaegar of house Targaryen and you are Sansa of house Stark, no king nor queens; so, please, spare me your act."

She straightens her back, the smile leaving her face. "Very well."

"Did you love him, at least?"

A breath leaves her lips, making her quiver as if he had just thrown a blow to her stomach. She shouldn't show her weakness, this kid was a king, one who has a dragon and now there was no Jon to keep the peace between the North and the South, so she needed to be careful. Yet, it was hard when the face in front of her was so much like Jon's, so she decided she wouldn't lie, it was her weakness, but now her weakness was gone.

"I did."

"Did you gave him a bastard?," he asks, almost spitting his words, as if hearing the truth from her was almost unbearable and maybe it was, because then he couldn't blame them for how things had turned, because they had been just two people in love with too much to bear on their shoulders.

Her face turns into a scowl. "You spit words like that, forgetting that your own father was one."

"So is that a yes?"

"No," her voice is thick, hard. "Believe me, if I had, he would've left your mother."

Jon had wanted a family, but not the one he had. Yes, he must have loved him, but a baby from Sansa would've been a dream come true and she can take pride in that. They would talk endlessly about those dreams, a little girl with red hair and gray eyes, but she was always loyal to the North, to her name, and Jon had respected that, he always had respected and honored her even if it hurt too much. She feels the tears welling in her eyes so she turns away and walks to her horse. The king's hands are fisted, fire burning in his eyes.

"Then why didn't you."

Because she was a fool, perhaps; because she was a strong woman who didn't want to be called a Lannister, a Bolton or Targaryen. She was Sansa Stark, the queen of the North.

"That is none of your business, my lord," she answers, listening to him trail behind her.

"I could take the North," he says through gritted teeth, coming closer to her, he's tall, taller than Jon, and then he takes her wrist with a bruising hold, making her turn to face him. "I could ride my army and my dragon and kill every lord of this land, take it as mine, then take you as my wife and go away every night to fuck a mistress, fill your life of miserable shame until death claimed you--"

Sansa takes out a dagger from under her dress, having left her needle behind, but never stepping outside without something that could defend her. She presses it against his throat.

"Or I could kill you right now, leave the South without a king, let those greedy lords kill one another and then take the throne, rape your mother and then, when they're done, my army will take everything left, every last bit that makes you feel powerful enough to threaten me right now. It would be so easy, I wouldn't even have to lift a finger for you southerners to kill each other."

Her breath is ragged as it is his. There's fear, but also a strong pride that's undoubtedly Jon's. It takes away the rage she feels and it must be madness what makes her press a hand to his cheek, lose her thumb over his lips. Gods, he looks so much like Jon. "But I won't," she whispers, taking a step back, "because you are his son, you are his blood, even if you're nothing like him."

He's still petrified, so she lets silence fill in for a second. "My father, Eddard Stark, raised him. He was Jon's uncle, but also his father. Both of them were honorable men, they would've never threatened a lady with such vile things like you've done. They were good leaders, so be one yourself, don't bring shame upon your father's memory starting a war over a problem that does not concern you."

She doesn't hide the dagger again, carefully watching how his face contorts slowly. She could leave now, she wants to, but turning her back on him would be a mistake. Then, he lets his black curls to fall upon his eyes, his shoulders shake for a second and finally, after what seems like an eternity, he lifts his face. Sansa is trembling, but it's only cold what she feels, never again will she fear a man. He looks ashamed, unshed tears making his eyes glow. She pities him.

"I am sorry. I really am."

The only thing missing is the northern accent, then she could say he really was Jon born all over again at that moment, of course, ignoring his darker skin tone, but it was more about the fact that only Jon would've been able to ask for forgiveness despite his proud stand as King.

"I forgive you, your grace."

She hesitates only for a second, but then turns her back on him and climbs her horse. His there in a second, helping her with cold hands. She realizes only then that he has been standing there without proper clothing for this weather.

"I will return," he says then. "Please, be ready."

"I will."

It's a lie, of course, she will never be ready to receive Jon without that smile of his, without the warmth in his body, the wrinkles in the sides of his eyes, but she has to be strong in front of everyone, she has to be strong for Jon too, because he would've wanted to be in the crypts alongside her father and his mother. She had a lifetime to mourn him.

* * *

 

_Alternative ending:_

She doesn't hide the dagger again, carefully watching how his face contorts slowly. She could leave now, she wants to, but turning her back on him would be a mistake. Then, he lets his black curls to fall upon his eyes, his shoulders shake for a second and finally, after what seems like an eternity, he lifts his face. Sansa is trembling, but it's only cold what she feels, never again will she fear a man. He looks ashamed, unshed tears making his eyes glow. She pities him.

"I am sorry. I really am."

The only thing missing is the northern accent, then she could say he really was Jon born all over again at that moment, of course, ignoring his darker skin tone, but it was more about the fact that only Jon would've been able to ask for forgiveness despite his proud stand as King.

"I forgive you, your grace."

"I am the only one who can ride Rhaegal," he says suddenly, looking at the dragon. "So he asked me to do this for him, to come and look for you, to take you to him as fast as I could."

Sansa's heart stops. The dagger falls to her feet. "Jon...?"

"He survived. Maester Sam thought he wouldn't, Tyrion panicked and said some things out loud, so everyone assumed--"

Sansa turns then, she can't let it show, but gods, she can't hide it either, her sobbing starts in the center of her chest and crawls to her throat, taking all her strength until she falls to her knees. The boy's by her side in an instant, trying to assist her somehow, he's such a kid still, so she stops hiding and a hold of his hand, with such strength that it almost pains her. Her right hand comes to her mouth, silencing herself, trying to calm the panic attack that has her fighting for air. It helps to calm her breathing, though the tears won't stop, but that's enough to let her stand, let him help her climb up Rhaegar –which is a lot more different than her horse–, and then she holds onto him as they lift through the skies.

She had sworn she would never come to King's Landing, but nothing of that crosses her mind as she walks to were Sam is standing. He smiles sheepishly at her, as if begging for forgiveness after doubting the strength of his friend. Sansa can't do anything but push her hands to the door, press it open and run to the bed where Jon is laying, a weak smile on his lips.

"You came," he whispers as she cries in his chest. He smells of sweat and herbs, something so unlike him that it pains her heart.

"You idiot, bloody idiot."

He laughs, she loves the sound of it until it makes him cough. Sansa is fast, pulling him into a seated position to rub his back and help him catch his breath. When he stops, he presses a hand to her cheek and looks at her eyes.

"I didn't want to leave this world without seeing you again."

"You cannot, not until I leave it with you."

"That's a promise."

**Author's Note:**

> So, like always, this is rushed. At the beginning I thought I would just end it with a lot of angst, you know, Sansa making Jon's funeral and everything, but then I couldn't do that to myself, I didn't want to write all of that. The second ending doesn't mean she's just going to change her mind, it just means they'll keep being lovers, I'm actually thinking that if I ever get the time, I'd like to write how Sansa, being there to take care of Jon, meets his wife and how it all revolves with Rhaegar there.
> 
> Also, Rhaegar II is 18 years old and, yes, I did try to create that parallel of Rhaegar-Lyanna-Elia.
> 
> Also, and this is the end, I'm sorry for any mistake, please point them out to me, English is not my first language and this time I only did a proofreading process once. Thank you for reading!


End file.
